Libera Me Domine
by silvercrafted
Summary: He wondered, idly, whether this was really the way he should be going about learning this, learning his teacher's secrets, by transcribing them off the back of this girl.


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own FMA or any of the characters.

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He had seen the tip of it, the day of her father's funeral, and he'd said nothing.

He must have known that the array would be large. But he had hissed- an intake of breath that meant something she couldn't fathom- she couldn't tell, because she hadn't been facing him when he had finally seen all of it, when she had let the last scrap of concealing fabric fall away from her back.

She knew, from the piles of papers that her father had kept, piles and piles of papers that said nothing, that what was on her back was the key. What was on her back was the secret, hypercondensed, coded, complex. She knew. No average alchemist, her father had said. She had to trust that he could do it.

And sat very straight, very still. Pretended to be a statue. Thought herself elsewhere, into the trees she had climbed as a girl, into the plains with the blue sky overhead.

He had seen the tip of it, the day of her father's funeral, and he'd been stunned into silence. Hawkeye-sensei had been _odd,_ certainly, living in his ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere with his daughter as his only company, when he could have gone so far in life- that alchemy could have done so _much_ for the people. And when he'd said that Riza knew all of his research, he'd thought for sure he'd meant that somehow she had the papers Hawkeye-sensei must have had. Had never even _thought_ that he had meant... meant that she was the manuscript herself. And she had told him that it was a code, one that only the skilled could crack.

He had thought he had been prepared, for when she bared her back to him, had thought that he would be able to be calm, professional, take down what was there, and work from his notes.

But seeing how large it was, seeing that it meant _nothing_ to him at first, seeing what had happened to this little girl's back, the daughter of his master, he'd bitten his tongue. _Shit-- You've got to be kidding me._ Only the first letter had made it past his lips, coming out as a hiss she would have been able to hear, tailing off quickly.

He tried to be professional. Mentally shaking himself, he pulled the paper he'd brought towards himself, and began sketching out the design of her tattoo. But it was difficult, and every so often he realized what he was doing, drawing pictures of the codes of his teacher's- her father's alchemy, off of her back.

He wondered, idly, whether this was really the way he should be going about learning this, learning his teacher's secrets, by transcribing them off the back of this girl. But he knew it was the _only_ way, and the thought pressed his lips together in a determined line.

The scratch of pen against paper dragged her away from her solitary thoughts after a while, and she twisted her neck from side to side- she was starting to get a crick in her neck. She hadn't really known what to expect, that day she'd offered him the secrets to Flame Alchemy, other than to hope it wouldn't be too degrading to her dignity. She'd been thankful that he hadn't asked about what her father had been _thinking_, thankful that he had just started writing. Was glad he couldn't see her face.

Roy almost jumped when she'd moved her head. It had been so easy to separate the girl from the markings, become absorbed in the transcription as fully as possible, circles and triangles in proportion, the salamander, sun, flames, all drawn as accurately as he could. The words would have to wait- she was starting to shift more frequently.

"I'm sorry for making you sit still for so long. I'll need more time to finish copying..."

Riza only shook her head, didn't speak until she had stood, pulling her shirt back on, carefully doing it up, adjusting it so that none of the darkness would show, before turning around. "It's fine, Mister Mustang." She spared only a glance at the papers he'd covered with notes, sketches, and the master drawing, before glancing towards the door. "You'll need to be going soon, if you're going to make it home in time for dinner."

He nodded silently, and gathered his papers.

He was back the next day, eyes bright with ideas again, turned his face away as she bared her back again, sat once more sideways in the chair, and missed the glance she darted at him, convincing herself by the firm expression on his face that this was the right thing for her to be doing. He would use this power for the aid of the people. That had been her father's desire, her father's wish. Riza's wish. To believe in a world where everyone could live in peace.

He almost needed to squint, to read the words written there. At first glance it was merely a block of text, indecipherable, but after a minute something clicked, and he wrote quickly, on a fresh piece of paper:

_Libera me _

_domine de morte æterna_

_in die illa tremenda_

He kept writing, but it was slower, harder, tedious, the words wrapped themselves around the circle, disappeared under the pieces of the cross, reappeared, ceased to make sense, and remade sense.

More than once he'd found himself squinting, head turned, finger outstretched a millimeter from her skin, trying to figure out if that was an e or an o, because that would make all the difference, perhaps, was it _ignem_ or _ignom_ written there, it could be the key to the whole thing-

_-dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem._

And pulled his hand away, pulled back away from her, because it was enough that she would trust him this much. Touching her skin would break it.

Riza could feel him close behind her. It was astonishing how much she could feel where he was, behind her-- she'd never appreciated how insulating clothing could be before. She could feel the faint draught that ambled through the house, yes, but it was overwhelmed by body heat behind her. His face, close again, far again, close again, a finger not-tracing lines of text. She wouldn't shiver at the proximity, she _wouldn't._ She wouldn't allow the hair at the base of her neck to prickle at the not-touch, and then it was gone again, and she could breathe out.

That day took an eternity.

The next day was the same. She sat, he stared at her back, at his papers, at her back again, at his papers again. He'd told her he only needed to be sure that he had everything down exactly, and Riza had nodded silently. Knew that he knew what he needed to do. She'd no right to complain. She'd offered him this knowledge.

He was closer than ever, that day, looking for something- anything- that he had missed- had checked and double checked even the dots that seemed to have no meaning, until finally- _finally__,_ he knew that he had gotten everything, and heaved a huge sigh.

The blonde girl turned her head over her shoulder at the sigh. All this time he'd been nearly silent, mutterings and murmurings aside, and this seemed different.

Ah- he'd forgotten about her again, careless of him. He offered her a hesitant ghost of a smile. "I think I've got it all." It still didn't make any _sense_, not a damn _bit._ Other than the flame- it was Flame Alchemy, after all, and the sun, symbol for fire, the salamander that lived in fire, it was the text that was the clue, he knew it.

Riza nodded, and reached for her shirt, standing carefully and moving to the corner where she was partially obscured to dress herself again.

When she looked back at him, he was already engrossed in the papers he'd accumulated, writing furiously, crossing things out, expression hovering somewhere between frustration and determination. But it was nowhere near the possessed look her father's sunken eyes had always held.

With a soft sigh, Riza left him there, exiting the room as silently as she could.

He hadn't realized that he'd been so absorbed until he realized that it was late, the lights had been turned on at some point, and it was dark out. And he was _starving. _He hadn't eaten lunch, and it was far past dinnertime. Rubbing his forehead with one hand to assuage the work headache, he realized that something had been put on the table- how had he missed its arrival? He'd been using the whole desk to spread out the papers he'd been writing on, in the hopes they'd make more sense.

A small plate of food, and a glass of water.


End file.
